


Baby's First

by nox_candida



Series: Getting Better Ficlets and AUs [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-09
Updated: 2012-04-09
Packaged: 2017-11-03 08:10:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/379213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nox_candida/pseuds/nox_candida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a room in Sherlock's Mind Palace--Tristram's room--dedicated to collecting and saving the important milestones in Tristram's life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Baby's First

**Author's Note:**

> Many, many moons ago, culf asked me to write a fic detailing Sherlock and Tris: the early days. Originally, this was not the fic I was going to write. I may still go back to that idea some day, but I came up with this instead. It was going to be a series of short ficlets, and then it was going to be a 5+1 fic, and then it morphed into a 9 things + a beginning and an end. So here we are. This hasn't been betaed or Britpicked, and my knowledge of infants is rather shaky, so if something strikes you as completely bizarre or impossible, please mention it. Also, thanks to PrettyArbitrary for editing assistance. Okay, here goes.

Sherlock Holmes stored many things in his Mind Palace, some of which he would never admit to saving. Many of those things he kept hidden away, secured in secret rooms or buried in labryrinths that only he could navigate.

One of these rooms, tucked safely in the top tower of his Mind Palace, with a guard outside of the staircase door, was Tristram’s room.

_Tristram’s room is large--plenty of room to grow--and painted the same pale blue as his eyes. There is a desk in one corner, short and sturdy, with soil samples from all over London covering the majority of the space. Opposite the desk, in the corner furthest from the door, is a bookshelf with a toy double-decker bus on top of it, the bright red colour contrasting with the soothing pastel colour on the walls. On the shelves, amongst the books on chemistry, geology, and science, is a large, ornate and expensive book of fairy tales._

_The bookshelf rests in the corner, next to a large cupboard. Inside the cupboard is a slew of toys, Tristram’s clothes, and a first aid kit, prominently placed by the door for easy access._

_Near the door to the room is a hatstand, which only contains one hat--a ridiculous, old-fashioned deerstalker that is much too big for Tristram. Resting against the wall behind the hatstand is a large black umbrella._

_The middle of the room is dominated by Tristram’s bed, a four-poster made of a golden oak and covered with a blue duvet. Just poking out from underneath the duvet are Tristram’s favourite pair of trainers, covered in mud and threadbare from constant wear and tear._

_Resting on the duvet, clashing horribly with the soothing tones of the room and the bed, are two stuffed toys: one a small, black and white zebra, and the other a slightly larger primary-coloured dragon._

_The last item of importance sits prominently on the matching night table, which is right next to the bed. It’s a photograph, in a simple frame, of a one-year-old Tristram covered in cake and frosting, clapping his hands. Sherlock himself is lurking in the background, a small smile on his face._

To the outsider, there was no rhyme or reason to the items in Tristram’s room, and Sherlock didn’t think he could explain it to anyone else. Not even Tristram, not even the time he asked about it.

**

**31 August 2009**

It was the middle of a case, he’d been awake for two days, and he was standing in the flat’s sitting room, absolutely _certain_ he had all the pieces he needed and that he was on the verge of solving the case.

He’d closed his eyes and roamed the halls of his Palace, picturing the pieces of data he needed, working out how they fit together, when a clattering from the kitchen disturbed him. Frowning, he opened his eyes. He was _so close_.

“Tristram,” he said sharply, turning on his heel and making his way into the kitchen.

The boy—still small and thin, eyes too large for his face and sitting awkwardly above cheekbones and a nose he had yet to grow into—turned to look at him from where he was straining to reach the sink.

“Yes, Father?” he asked quietly, eyes even wider than usual, soapy water dangerously close to dousing him where it appeared he was attempting to clean the plate he’d used at…whatever meal he’d had recently.

Sherlock sighed and retrieved a chair from the kitchen table to pull it over to the sink. He then lifted his son under the arms and set him upon the chair. “I’m working,” he said, looking his son in the eye seriously.

Tristram, already intelligent, nodded, though he had a slightly fearful look as though expecting to get told off. “Sorry, Father,” he whispered, and turned back to his dish-washing.

Sherlock hummed noncommittally and leaned back against the worktop, closing his eyes. His mind pictured his Mind Palace, he could see where the killer— _male, early 40’s, office worker, had recently walked through Clapham Common towards Brixton tube station, size 11 shoe_ —had met the victim— _Rebecca Roberts, 25, lived in Tooting_ —and that this was not his first killing was easy to discern by the assured way he’d cleaned up the crime scene and disposed of the body. But what was not yet clear was—

“Father?”

Sherlock gritted his teeth and opened his eyes, turning to face Tristram. “What?” he asked, keeping his voice level and free of the frustration he was feeling.

Well. More or less.

Tristram shrunk back slightly, biting his lip. “I need help down,” he whispered.

Sherlock sighed and plucked him off the chair, setting him down on the ground. “Tristram. What have I said about what should happen when I’m working?” he asked sternly.

“I know, Father. I’m sorry,” the boy said nervously. “But you closed your eyes and I thought…maybe you were done? What were you doing?” he asked, his voice sounding somewhat more assured.

Sherlock sighed and knelt in front of his son. “Tristram,” he began, tone of voice softened, though still serious and firm. “I’m working. I’m recalling the clues from a mental system of organisation I’ve devised called a Mind Palace. I will explain it in further detail when I’ve solved the case and am no longer working, but suffice to say that I’ve constructed a building in my mind and I use rooms and the items within to more rapidly remember data.”

Tristram nodded solemnly, looking lost and confused. “Do I have a room?” he asked, in a voice that was nearly a whisper.

Sherlock hesitated, then squeezed his son’s shoulders. He stood. “Yes,” he said simply, and continued before Tristram could ask more about it. “Go ask Mrs Hudson to help you with the dishes, and be sure to keep the noise down while I’m working.” Secure in the knowledge that Tristram would do as he’d said, he closed his eyes, pressed his fingers together, and worked his way through the Mind Palace once more.

“Yes, Father,” Tristram said before dashing out of the kitchen and down the stairs to Mrs Hudson’s.

Sherlock had the answer shortly thereafter—thankfully with no further disruptions—because of course it was Benjamin Thompson, a former co-worker. How could he have missed something so obvious? With barely a shout to Mrs Hudson to watch after Tristram and put him to bed at his bedtime, he dashed out of the flat and involved himself in catching a killer.

Hours later he returned home, still riding the high of being right, and quietly made his way up to 221B and then up the second staircase to Tristram’s room. Poking his head in, he saw that his son was sound asleep, curled up into a ball and clutching at the stuffed toy that someone had inexplicably given him.

Sherlock approached the bed and looked down at his son, gently caressing his dark curls, a small smile quirking his lips. He dutifully saved the moment in his Palace in the form of Tristram’s favourite mug, filled with tea, sitting on the nightstand.

**

**Bedtime story - 1 month**

_There is a desk in one corner, short and sturdy, with soil samples from all over London covering the majority of the space..._

Sherlock Holmes had not expected to be required to care for a child, much less his own. He had, of course, made an error in allowing Irene Adler to seduce him, an even greater error in not donning protection (he could only blame his risk-taking and self-destructive tendencies), and the result of these errors was currently fussing in his crib, apparently unable to sleep.

Missing sleep was not new to Sherlock by any stretch of the imagination; missing sleep for two days running because his son was a nearly blind, defenceless infant who seemed unable to sleep when it was convenient was something new.

Currently, he held Tristram in his arms and was pacing the length of the sitting room, patting his son’s back as Mrs Hudson had advised some hours previously.

It wasn’t helping.

“Please be quiet,” he said to the infant who couldn’t...wouldn’t settle. He even took care to keep his voice low and soothing, in the hopes that encouraging cooperation would ensure it.

It didn’t.

“I know you’re tired,” he continued, making yet another trail through the items that now populated the sitting room. These things included a baby carrier, a changing table and associated nappy disposal unit, and a bouncer with toy bar attached. “You should have been asleep some time ago,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the child’s increasingly loud fussing.

Fed up, Sherlock held Tristram at arm’s length from him. Tristram’s eyes were crinkled shut in what could only be distress, his face was pink, and his cloud of dark hair was standing on end.

“You’re not hungry,” Sherlock said, still observing his son closely. “Nor do you need to be changed. You’re not sick or running a fever, and you’re not colicky. You’ve not even become fixated on an object as you did the other day. Clearly, the only cause for your upset is lack of sleep. Now, while sleep may be less necessary when you get older, unanimous wisdom on the subject indicates that for your age, you should be getting anywhere from 15 to 18 hours of sleep a day. You have not even had a nap. So, the trouble thus identified, it only leaves you do to the inevitable and go to sleep.”

Tristram’s fussing quieted during this speech and his eyes opened to stare vacantly at his father. Then, once Sherlock ceased speaking, Tristram’s nose wrinkled, his eyes slammed shut, and he started fidgeting and making angry, desperate little noises.

“Ah,” Sherlock said, this deduction rather simple. “My voice seems to have some have a soothing effect on you. effect of calming you down. I suppose the only thing for it is to keep talking. Very well.”

He pulled Tristram close to him, cradling the back of his head with his large hand and continued pacing. “I have deleted any story that functions as a traditional bedtime story and any description of the crime scene I was last at will, of course, be inappropriate given the circumstances. I will then explain to you the very first experiment I ever ran, which was a comparison of soil samples from different areas of Sussex, near your grandfather and grandmother’s estate.”

The tension pent up in the infant’s body began to dissipate and the cries quieted slightly. Sherlock carried on. “I was 7 years 4 months and 25 days old when I began the experiment, which consisted of my making a map of the estate, sectioning off the map into a grid, and then systemically taking soil samples from each square on the map. I was occupied by this task for the better part of a week.”

Tristram burrowed in closer with a little mewl. Sherlock frowned. “Obviously I would perform the experiment much more quickly now, but this was the first large-scale experiment I had ever crafted for myself. I was overly cautious in my approach and methodology, but I wanted to be sure that I was working with untainted data.”

The fussing had nearly stopped and the noises that Tristram was making were reduced to snuffles and small whimpers.

“Your uncle,” Sherlock continued, unable to help injecting a little bit of venom into the words, “deigned to comment that I resembled a farmer more than the pirates that I enjoyed pretending I was. I had the last word, though,” he grinned, patting Tristram’s back lightly, “when I put a garden snake in his bed.”

Tristram was completely quiet and still, save for his breathing, and Sherlock sighed in relief. He wasn’t heavy, and he seemed to enjoy being held, so Sherlock--who had been trying to work a case--went back to doing just that, speaking in quiet tones and whispers so as not to wake his son.

**

**Experiment - 3 months, 4 days**

_Resting on the duvet, clashing horribly with the soothing tones of the room and the bed, are two stuffed toys: one a small, black and white zebra, and the other a slightly larger primary-coloured dragon..._

The child-rearing books that Mycroft and Mrs Hudson had forced onto him had been chock-full of advice on playing with one’s child, or talking at them in high-pitched voices.

Sherlock was rather dubious of the entire concept. He had decided that Tristram would prefer he speak in his normal tone of voice and expose him early to science, in the hopes that he would grow to be reasonably intelligent--as befit a child of Sherlock Holmes--and not at all an idiot.

Thus, experiments were important in that they would not only help mould Tristram’s mind in much the way his own had been shaped, but would provide Sherlock the necessary data to best see to Tristram’s needs.

He didn’t need dubious parenting books and suspect clinical research to tell him that.

“Now, Tristram,” he said, leaning close to Tristram’s face and focusing on his eyes. His research indicated that infants liked looking at their caretaker’s eyes, as well as shiny and bright objects; his own study of Tristram’s reactions had verified this. “You are well-fed, have a clean nappy, and have recently woken from your nap. With those distracting variables currently seen to, we can begin with the first test, which is to assess your visual development.”

Tristram’s eyes opened wide and he cooed in response, his voice still quiet but rising and lowering in pitch, as if to mimic the speech of his father. Sherlock couldn’t help but smile smugly. “Clearly, we won’t need to test your hearing, which is just as well. I have no desire to make you cry.”

Tristram ooh’d in response, and smiled briefly.

Sherlock held up a large, soft toy--type unimportant, it was the colour that mattered, though Mrs Hudson had unnecessarily informed him it was some sort of zebra that other, normal children were currently wild about.

“Tristram, I want you to watch the toy,” Sherlock said to his son, holding it within the boy’s line of sight, approximately one foot from his face.

Tristram’s big blue eyes crossed in the process, but he was able to focus almost immediately. “Good,” he said, smiling a bit and then moving the toy to his right--Tristram’s left--at a slow and steady pace.

Tristram’s eyes began tracking the movement, but after a moment, they returned to Sherlock’s face, and then wandered off to the other side to look at a the sunlight glinting off the glass of Sherlock’s chemistry set. “Ahh,” Tristram said and smiled briefly again.

Sherlock frowned. “No, Tristram,” he said, only remembering to modulate his tone to be soothing and calm as opposed to slightly frustrated. “Watch the toy. Not me.” He put the toy back in front of Tristram’s face. “Let’s try again.”

This time, Sherlock moved the toy to the left and was pleased when Tristram’s eyes tracked it further. He smiled, bringing the toy back in front of Tristram’s face as he moved it to the other side.

“Better,” Sherlock said, pleased, and then sighed when Tristram’s eyes left the toy to go back to the chemistry set, eyes wide.

“Well,” Sherlock said, placing the toy down and retrieving another, this one an eye-watering display of red, yellow, and blue, to hold in front of Tristram’s face “It appears your visual development is proceeding normally,” he commented, trying not to sound disappointed. “Let’s see if you have more success with this...item.”

Just then, Tristram’s face crumpled and he began to cry, in a hiccoughing way which Sherlock had learnt to identify with Tristram needing a nappy change.

Sherlock groaned and rubbed the bridge of his nose, then quickly tossed the toy away and picked Tristram up to take him over to the changing station.

“I think perhaps we’ve found our next experiment,” Sherlock remarked, holding Tristram’s soiled nappy in front of him and quickly disposing of it in the nappy disposal--which, thankfully, neutralised much of the odour emanating from it.

He looked down seriously at his son, who was beginning to settle a bit now that he’d been cleaned.

“We will have to conduct an experiment on your diet to determine how on earth to avoid your nappies smelling like that in future.”

Tristram only smiled in response.

**

**Laugh - 4 months, 1 week, 3 days**

_Resting against the wall behind the hatstand is a large black umbrella..…_

The headline on the Times’ website proclaimed in large, bold font, **Foot-and-mouth ‘Incubating Rapidly’**. That, coupled with the facts that it was a very nice day out and that he’d been left alone for three weeks, led Sherlock to mutter, “Damn."

He turned to face Tristram, who was happily bouncing in his bouncer and watching the toys hanging from the toy bar.

“Tristram,” Sherlock said, walking over to kneel in front of his son. Tristram looked up at him and smiled briefly. “How do you feel like going out for a walk today?”

“Bah bah bah bah,” Tristram babbled, which Sherlock took for agreement. Lifting his son from the bouncer, he walked quickly into his room to get dressed.

“We’ll go to Regents Park,” Sherlock told him, setting him down carefully in the middle of the bed on his stomach so that he could lift his head more easily. He removed his dressing gown, tossing it to the side, and headed over to his closet to pick out an appropriate suit. “It won’t mean much to you and you’ll hardly remember it anyway, but Mrs Hudson seems to think exposure to nature is something worthwhile,” he continued in a sceptical voice. He settled on a dark grey suit and white shirt.

Turning from the closet to start dressing, he sighed. “Tristram, my dressing gown is not a chew toy,” he said, going over to the bed and pulling the gown away from his son, who had managed to wrap one small hand around it and pull it to his mouth. Until Sherlock pulled away, he’d been happily mouthing at it with his gums.

Tristram’s face scrunched up and his lip wobbled; clear signs of imminent distress which, quite frankly, they didn’t have the time for. Sherlock sighed. “Oh very well,” he said, irritated, and put the dressing gown back on the bed within easy reach. Tristram wasted no time fisting a hand into the material and mouthing at it.

“I’ll just have to have Mrs Hudson wash your drool off of it later,” he told his son.

“Kah kah kah?” Tristram, said, dressing gown impeding the babbling somewhat.

Sherlock, despite himself, smiled and finished dressing. “Can you say da-da?”

“Bah bah?” Tristram mimicked, blue eyes large and drool dripping from his open mouth onto Sherlock’s duvet.

“No. Da da,” Sherlock responded, kneeling down so that he was eye level with his son and enunciating the words more clearly.

“Ma ma ma ma ma,” Tristram said, sticking his fist--along with the dressing gown--back in his mouth. 

Sherlock sighed. “Now you’re just being contrary.”

“Hardly surprising,” a very unwelcome voice chipped in, sounding smug. “He is your son, after all.”

Sherlock looked up at the figure standing in the doorway and scowled. He mentally cursed himself for not being quicker, but there was no avoiding the interloper now.

He looked away from Mycroft and back to his son, who was drooling all over his dressing gown. “I’d ask what you were doing here,” Sherlock said, carefully rubbing Tristram’s head and then standing up to lift him from the bed into his arms. “But I think that’s fairly clear, given the morning’s headlines. It must have been rather distressing for you to miss out on your full English this morning,” he finished scathingly, trying to settle Tristram, who was beginning to fuss.

He didn’t look up to take in Mycroft’s expression, but he didn’t need to. He could well imagine the strained smile and the smug superiority. “Is that the best you can do?” Mycroft asked, sounding bored.

Sherlock extended a finger to Tristram and allowed his son to grab it and mouth at it. “It hardly matters. Though I suppose it’s just as well Swiss chocolate imports haven’t been affected.”

Mycroft heaved a sigh as heavy as he was. “Really, Sherlock...” Mycroft began, a tired sort of annoyance in his voice.

Sherlock pulled his finger away and lifted Tristram up so that he was in an upright position. His son’s eyes went wide and he squirmed, smiling a bit before his face crumpled slightly. “Get me a dummy, won’t you?” he said, sneering at Mycroft. 

His brother huffed in annoyance and began to move, his ridiculous umbrella clicking and clacking on the floor, towards where Sherlock kept Tristram’s dummies, when a high-pitched shriek of laughter halted Mycroft. He turned to stare, and Sherlock--equally surprised, though trying to suppress it--changed his grip on his son so that he could look down at him.

Tristram looked up at him and smiled. “Bah.”

“Do it again.” Sherlock said to his brother, glancing up quickly and then returning his eyes to Tristram.

The quick glance was enough to catch Mycroft rolling his eyes, but his brother obligingly tapped his umbrella on the floor. Tristram laughed, squirming in Sherlock’s arms. Sherlock adjusted his grip and smiled, leaning over to speak to Tristram. “He’s funny, isn’t he? Your uncle.” He winked.

Tristram stopped laughing and his eyes went wide “Ahhhh bah bah Bah!” he babbled, his pitch and tone raising and lowering. 

Sherlock smiled at Mycroft. “I think we have our answer there.” For good measure, he gently tickled Tristram behind the knee.

The look on his brother’s face at Tristram’s resulting giggle was priceless.

**

**Crime Scene - 6 months, 2 days**

_Near the door to the room is a hatstand, which only contains one hat--a ridiculous, old-fashioned deerstalker that is much too big for Tristram._

_Crime scene in Lambeth, evidence of 2, possibly 3, bodies. None found. Same M.O. as Douglas case._

Sherlock read Lestrade’s message and grinned, the smile completely transforming his face. He checked on Tristram, who was quietly sitting and babbling to himself, seemingly engrossed in the garishly-coloured elephant that Mrs Hudson insisted Tristram should get for his six-month “unbirthday.”

Whatever that was.

Speaking of...

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock shouted out of the door. “There’s a case!” he called, and headed into his bedroom to get dressed.

Once he exited his room, he reached out for his coat, checked for his keys, and exited the flat, bounding down the stairs before coming to a halt halfway down. He mentally reviewed the last few seconds and realised that Mrs Hudson had neither answered nor been present in his flat when he breezed his way through the sitting room.

Frowning, he continued down the stairs until he reached the bottom and 221A. “Mrs Hudson!” he called, knocking impatiently on the door.

No answer, nor was there any sign that Mrs Hudson was currently present anywhere in the building.

Sherlock frowned and took out his mobile. He’d have to find someone to watch Tristram while he went to the crime scene, but he was unsure to whom he could entrust Tristram’s care. The vast majority of the human race were idiots and would probably somehow imprint their idiocy on his impressionable son. He simply couldn’t allow that to happen.

Which only left Mycroft--as annoying as that was--and...no. Unacceptable.

Sherlock turned back to look at the door to 221B and frowned thoughtfully.

Well, there were no acceptable candidates to leave Tristram with and it wasn’t as though he’d even _remember_ this. Besides, it’d be a good adventure for him.

Mind made up, Sherlock dashed up the stairs and re-entered the flat. “Tristram,” he said, pleased when his son ceased his nonsensical monologue to look up at him. “We’re going out.”

Tristram’s eyes widened and he looked curiously up at Sherlock. “Gah?”

“Yes.” Sherlock scooped his son up and went to take the purple elephant away, when Tristram’s face crumpled and he started to squirm. “You want to bring this along, I take it,” Sherlock said, but it was probably just as well that he keep Tristram occupied. He handed his son the toy and was relieved when Tristram held the elephant close and calmed down.

Sherlock considered his options for transporting his son and decided that the most logical--in fact, the only--choice was the black baby carrier that Mycroft had insisted was essential. The fact that it had proven to be on more than one occasion--usually when Sherlock needed his hands free for delicate experiments and Tristram was refusing to stay calm unless he was held--was beside the point.

He might look ridiculous, but taking the pushchair was unwieldy and would get in the way of evidence collection. Carrying Tristram the entire time wasn’t feasible as he would likely need to use his hands.

Once he had the baby carrier on with Tristram tucked snugly to his chest, he grabbed Tristram’s changing bag and headed out.

Tristram, thankfully, was lulled to sleep by the cab ride to Lambeth, and Sherlock made sure to keep his voice down when he paid the cabbie upon arrival at the crime scene. He was under no illusions that this state of affairs would last long; no doubt some idiot police officer on the scene would throw a tantrum over Tristram being there--loudly--and wake the boy in the process. 

He bundled Tristram up under his coat, though of course there was no chance the the Yard would miss the baby bag, and strode under the yellow tape and into block of flats.

Sherlock wasn’t stopped until he reached the third floor where most of the activity was taking place.

“Oi, Freak, what are you--what have you got under your coat?” Donovan halted him, glaring at him suspiciously.

Sherlock drew himself up to his fullest height and looked down his nose at Donovan. “Not your business, Donovan. Where’s Lestrade?”

Donovan’s brows knitted together and she glared. “No. You’re not going one step further until-”

Tristram chose that moment to wake up, yawning and wiggling in the carrier until he could poke the top half of his face over the edge of the coat. “Bah?” he mumbled sleepily.

Sherlock unbuttoned his coat and plucked the elephant from the bag, ignoring Donovan’s outraged “Is that a _baby_?” in the process, and handed it to Tristram.

Tristram babbled happily and pressed one of the feet, laughing delightedly when it made a musical tone.

“Be good,” Sherlock murmured into his son’s hair. “Your father’s working and doesn’t need a distraction.” Sending a scathing, disdainful look at Donovan for good measure--she had graduated to screeching, “Is that _your_ kid?”--he simply manoeuvred around the DS and down the hall toward the flat that was obviously the scene of the crime.

Lestrade chose that moment to exit the flat. “‘Bout time,” he grumbled, and then blinked and came to a stop. “What-”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Yes, it’s a child. Yes, he’s my child. His name is Tristram and he’s six months old. Say hello, Tristram.”

Tristram, eyes wide, stared at the Detective Inspector, then stuck one of the limbs from the elephant into his mouth and started chewing. “He’s been teething,” Sherlock said. 

“What the... You can’t bring a baby onto a crime scene!” Lestrade hissed at him, keeping his voice down and sounding scandalised.

“Are you suggesting that I should have left him home unsupervised?” Sherlock asked.

“What--of course not! But if you couldn’t find someone to watch him--”

“I couldn’t,” Sherlock interrupted, “but you desperately needed my help, as usual, so here I am. Now what have we got?” Sherlock finished, trying to step past Lestrade, who, annoyingly, stepped back into his path.

“You can’t bring him here. He’s a baby!”

“Oh, well spotted, Lestrade. I see your observational skills are in top form today.”

“Sherlock...”

Sherlock stepped close to Lestrade and glared down at him. “Do you really think I’d put his life in any sort of danger? He’ll be fine, he won’t remember this, and he’s too young to understand in any case.”

Lestrade glared back at him, then sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “All right, but you get two minutes--and only two minutes--before I want him, and you, out of here. If there were any actual dead bodies here, I wouldn’t let you in at all.”

“What have we got?” Sherlock said, grinning as he followed Lestrade into the room.

“Not much,” he replied. “Just two large pools of blood and this damn hat,” he said, indicating the most atrocious example of headgear Sherlock had ever seen.

“A deerstalker?” Sherlock muttered, stepping closer to get a better look. He absent-mindedly put his hand out to catch Tristram’s toy when the motion knocked it from his grasp, and handed it back to his son.

“Yeah, neighbours said there was some sort of party--fancy dress, they thought--before it went quiet around midnight last night.”

“And they didn’t see or hear anything until they discovered the room left like this,” Sherlock said, frowning. He felt more than saw Tristram drop the elephant deliberately, and bent over to pick it up. He stuck it in the bag and retrieved a dummy, sliding it gently into Tristram’s mouth. “Behave. Father’s working,” he said.

“You got anything?” Lestrade asked, sounding annoyed and looking around the room, as though he wished to avoid looking at Tristram. Sherlock didn’t understand why, as Tristram was hardly making as much of a fuss as Sherlock himself had, at times, but he didn’t concern himself with it. That was Lestrade’s problem.

Instead, he grinned at the Detective Inspector while bouncing Tristram slightly in his carrier. “Oh, one or two theories...”

 

**

**Step – 8 months, 3 weeks, 5 days**

_Nearly under the bed, Tristram’s favourite trainers are barely visible..._

Lestrade had not been best pleased by Sherlock taking Tristram to his crime scene nearly three months ago and had expressed his displeasure by withholding access to other crime scenes.

This was, on the whole, irritating, though not infuriating since the cases that Lestrade had worked lately had been uniformly dull and, in any case, what was going on at home was far more interesting.

What was going on was Tristram’s increasing control over his body. He’d learnt to roll over by five months and begun sitting unaided by six. Crawling and scooting had occurred during his seventh month and standing while holding onto furniture or Sherlock’s hands had commenced by the middle of the eighth month.

Tristram was now almost nine months old and Sherlock expected that his first tentative steps could happen any day now.

He was preparing for this by setting up his own surveillance--while he was unfortunately aware of his brother’s, he had no desire at all to rely on it--and by experimenting with Tristram’s desire to move away from the furniture by putting his favourite toys in the middle of the room. So far, his results were inconclusive; Tristram clearly wanted the toys, but had yet to attempt leaving the safety of the furniture, unless he got down and crawled.

Sherlock had also, ostensibly at Mrs Hudson’s request though it was really his own initiative, cleared the floor in the sitting room so that Tristram would be able to walk unimpeded, once he started.

All in all, it was one of the few times in Sherlock’s life when he was more or less content without any stimulation in the form of cases or drugs.

Of course, predicting when Tristram would be ready to take his first unaided steps was something of a puzzle coupled with an experiment, so it wasn’t as though Sherlock was completely unoccupied.

On this particular July morning, Sherlock was sprawled in the middle of the sitting room floor on his laptop, surrounded by Tristram’s toys. He was ostensibly working, reading the headlines and brushing up on his knowledge of rare poisons for a possible case, but he also had a spreadsheet open and was covertly examining his son, whom he’d set down against the sofa.

So far, the experiment was not going particularly well. Tristram seemed fascinated by the tiny shoes that Mrs Hudson had bought him when she was out at the shops the day before.

The ensuing conversation had been baffling and not a little irritating.

“He’s a growing boy, Sherlock. He needs new things.”

“I bought him perfectly good shoes two and a half months ago.”

“Well, he can hardly wear them _now_ , can he?”

“Why on earth not? His feet have only grown six tenths of a centimetre. I checked just last month.”

“Exactly, dear. He’s a growing boy and he needs new things. Those old shoes hardly fit him and he needs something sturdier if he’s going to walk.”

“Is this an ‘unbirthday’ situation?”

“If you like.”

Sherlock had given up after that.

Now, though, he was somewhat vexed to see that Tristram was _fascinated_ , simply because they lit up when he moved his feet.

“I don’t see what’s so special about them,” Sherlock said suddenly, unable to help himself. “So they light up. It’s simple stimulation, Tristram, and incredibly distracting.”

Tristram looked over at him and beamed, and then, to Sherlock’s further disappointment, settled himself on his hands and knees and crawled over.

“Tristram,” his father sighed, watching as Tristram settled himself in a sitting position and picked up his newest toy--one Mycroft had bought for him, unfortunately--and pressed the buttons to make it light up and play music.

Tristram found it absolutely delightful, shrieking with laughter. Sherlock wanted to throw it at Mycroft’s head.

Rolling his eyes, he closed the spreadsheet--they’d have to try again later--and removed Tristram’s shoes, as he was absorbed by the toy and didn’t much notice. Sherlock then refocused his attention on the article he was reading about dimethylmercury. Unfortunately, though he attempted to ignore the irritating, repetitive noise that the toy made, he was unable to.

He glanced at the clock desperately--perhaps it was time for Tristram’s nap?--but to no avail. It was the middle of the morning, too early for a feeding or for Tristram’s nap.

Oh yes, he was definitely going to exact revenge on Mycroft the next time he saw him.

He was just deciding what form his revenge was going to take--he was leaning towards savouring pasties and cakes that Mycroft wouldn’t be able to eat in front of him, but perhaps an invitation to the circus and Mycroft’s deep discomfort with clowns would be more entertaining--when Lestrade mercifully texted him.

_Answer your phone._

Sherlock rolled his eyes and waited until the third ring to pick up in retaliation. “That suspicious death in Hampstead.”

“Right,” Lestrade answered, sounding annoyed and resigned. “We’re not sure what the cause is, but it couldn’t have been natural causes-”

“Of _course_ it wasn’t natural causes, don’t you know poisoning when you see it?”

“Poison! How could it be...how could you possibly know that?”

Sherlock jumped up and started pacing the room, his voice slightly raised. “Think, Lestrade. You said yourself, not natural causes, so what other option is there?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock. Drug overdose?”

“Oh, for...that’s Anderson’s theory, isn’t it?”

The suspicious hesitation was answer enough. “It’s not a bad theory.”

“Of course it is,” Sherlock fired back disdainfully. “She’s a fifty-five year old woman with no history of substance abuse problems.”

“How on earth--!”

“So it’s unlikely to be natural causes or _drugs_ ,” Sherlock hissed disdainfully. “It’s poisoning--mercury poisoning, specifically.”

“Mercury poisoning,” Lestrade repeated in a flat, disbelieving voice.

“Of a sort, though the mercury compound used is extremely rare,” Sherlock said, grinning. “I’ll need to see the body, of course,” he began, pivoting on his foot to continue pacing when he came to a halt. Tristram was on his feet, bent over at the waist with his hands on the ground as though to steady himself.

“Of course,” he dimly heard Lestrade say, but that’s unimportant now. The case could wait.

“Must go,” Sherlock said vaguely, ending the call and watching Tristram carefully.

His son carefully and unsteadily powered himself into a standing position and then swayed back and forth, as though he were a tree in a gentle breeze.

In attempting to steady himself, he shuffled his feet and tried to bend his knees, which caused him to fall right back on his rear.

Sherlock couldn’t help smiling slightly. 

Kneeling, he held out one of Tristram’s shoes, wiggling it just out of his reach. As expected, Tristram was fascinated by the blinking red lights. “Come here, Tristram,” he murmured, attempting to sound encouraging.

Tristram smiled and pushed himself up to a standing position once more. Again, he wobbled unsteadily on his feet, but he looked more balanced than the last time, which Sherlock found encouraging. “Come on,” he said again, wiggling the shoe so it would continue to light up.

Tristram shuffled his feet again, managing a waddle that looked more like a penguin than a human. But the shuffling produced movement, Tristram carefully taking one step, and then two towards the toy before his rhythm faltered and he ended up on his bum once more. His face crumpled for a moment, not in genuine distress, but frustration, before he levered himself up and tried for a third time, this time managing to make it to the shoe before falling and crawling the remaining distance.

Sherlock handed the shoe over as a reward, watching Tristram’s utter absorption in it, and smiled. “Very good,” he murmured, not at all surprised when Tristram didn’t hear him.

And because he was feeling generous and forgiving, he even texted Lestrade.

_Dimethylmercury. Investigate the daughter, who works as a chemist at a pharmaceutical company. SH_

**

**Deduction - 9 months, 2 weeks, 1 day**

_In the closet is a first aid kit..._

Lestrade came to realise, shortly after the mercury poisoning case the previous month, that having Tristram with Sherlock actually _improved_ the detective’s behaviour on a case.

Well, mostly.

The next time he visited a crime scene, he was more than a little frazzled. Tristram did not want to be in the baby carrier when he’d grown steadier on his feet in the weeks since taking his first steps. Having Tristram running around a crime scene with bodies and blood and important evidence was out of the question--even Sherlock knew that--but Tristram, unfortunately, couldn’t understand.

Hence the crying.

Sherlock sighed in annoyance as he was unceremoniously kicked out of the cab three blocks from the crime scene by a cabbie who had told him to either shut his kid up or get out.

He’d decided on exiting, with the additional parting shot about how the cabbie’s lover was clearly married to another man.

If nothing else, it meant that the cabbie had driven off in fury before collecting his fare.

To make matters worse, it was exceptionally nippy for August and there was a heavy mist in the air that threatened rain but never seemed to quite get there.

When he finally arrived on the scene, he and Tristram were late, soaked--their dark hair plastered to their heads--chilly, and frustrated. Tristram, in fact, was still whimpering and crying in frustration. Sherlock had already given up trying to talk him, or distract him, out of it. He had a feeling that if he opened his mouth to speak to his son, his sharp tone and angry words would do far more harm than good.

And, in order to prove to Sherlock that things could always get worse, the first person they encountered on their way to see Lestrade was Anderson.

Of course.

Sherlock could immediately see that the alleged forensic expert was spoiling for a fight because he and his wife were on the rocks, so, in a bid to ease his son’s distress, he released him from the baby carrier and set him on the ground, his whimpers and tears of frustration slowing dramatically.

“Tristram,” he said in a low voice, “I’m about to have a very unpleasant conversation. Stay near me and don’t wander off.”

Tristram sniffled and, seeing that he was surrounded by people he was unfamiliar with, clutched to his father’s trouser leg and bent over to inspect a puddle.

Sherlock straightened up, glaring at Anderson as the man reached him.

“What are you doing here?” Anderson said scornfully.

“One could ask you the same question,” Sherlock sniffed, head held high.

Anderson glared. “As a matter of fact, this is my actual _job_ \--”

“One you do poorly.”

“I do just fine,” he retorted, face turning red. “I have a reason to be here, and you don’t. Freak.”

“I was _invited_ by Lestrade, and as usual he needs me to do your job for you.”

Anderson huffed in outrage, clearly gearing up for some no-doubt useless verbal attack, when Sherlock continued before the idiot could gather his thoughts. “You’ve no doubt missed more than usual, distracted by your sordid personal life. Again.” He smirked.

Anderson’s mouth hung open, before he snapped it shut and, impossibly, seemed to turn redder. Sherlock was about to add to his observations before he felt a tiny hand tug on his trousers and he looked down.

Tristram was staring up at him, and then held up a large worm in offering, no doubt collected from the puddle he’d been poking around in.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but obligingly inspected the worm. “Yes, a fine example of the species,” he told Tristram, quirking his lips into a tired smile, and then handing the worm back to his son.

“I see he’s going to be a freak like you,” Anderson said venomously, and Sherlock jerked his head up to glare at Anderson.

“I would be very careful about the words coming out of your mouth,” he said coldly, his voice low. 

Anderson narrowed his eyes. “Why should I, when you aren’t?”

Sherlock stepped closer, using his height to look down on the shorter man. “Oh, I do watch what I say. I certainly have less reason to be careful than you, however, as I don’t have a catastrophic effect on the intelligence of those nearby. In fact--”

He was cut off from his devastating attack on Anderson by another tug at his trousers. Looking down, he noted that Tristram was beginning to look upset. His mouth was turned down in a frown and he was sniffling.

Sherlock sent Anderson one last nasty look and leant down to pick Tristram up, securing him in the baby carrier as he did. “Now, I know this is difficult for you to grasp,” Sherlock continued, modulating his voice to sound more pleasant even while he sent Anderson the sternest, nastiest glare he could manage, “but I’ve been invited. If you’ll step aside--an admittedly difficult task, I know, but one that my son has managed to master, so with a bit of work you might be able to as well--I’ll go do your job.”

Anderson spluttered, his cheeks blotchy and his eyes narrowed, but Sherlock ignored him and made to step around him when he heard a small voice pipe up.

“Ow.”

Sherlock glanced down to see that Tristram was still sniffling, but he was pointing at Anderson’s wrist, which was bare thanks to the way that the sleeve of his protective suit had ridden up slightly. “Police issue handcuffs, Anderson? Shouldn’t you know better at your age?”

Anderson opened his mouth, his face losing its colour, when Sherlock held up a hand and smirked. “No, don’t answer that. It’s obvious that you don’t. Last ditch effort to save your marriage. Didn’t work, I see, by the lines on your face.”

Anderson stared stonily at him, and Sherlock allowed himself a grin. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said, with a mocking flourish of his hand, and then walked past the man without waiting for an answer.

Once he was sure they were out of earshot, he placed a small kiss on the top of Tristram’s head. “Not bad, for a first effort,” he said quietly.

Tristram glanced up at him sleepily, still not thrilled about being in the baby carrier, but much calmer. He was asleep by the time they reached the body.

**

**Word – 10 months, 3 weeks, 4 days**

_On the shelves, amongst the books on chemistry, geology, and science, is a large, ornate and expensive book of fairy tales._

“Ahhh!” Tristram giggled, running around the kitchen with the toy plane that Lestrade had unexpectedly--and, to Sherlock, unwelcomely--gifted to his son at the last crime scene they’d been at.

Tristram had been overjoyed; Sherlock, less so.

“No running,” Sherlock said absent-mindedly, trying to concentrate on his latest experiment--the effects of long-term exposure to formic acid on skin and clothes--for a case involving a dead beekeeper. The task was more difficult when accounting for Tristram’s increased mobility and corresponding increase in volume.

Tristram plodded by, holding the little toy aloft and making vaguely appropriate noises.

“No running,” Sherlock repeated, attempting to keep his rising irritation at bay.

The plodding steps slowed, thankfully, but the volume did not lessen.

Unfortunately.

“Zoom!” Tristram exclaimed happily. Sherlock sighed in irritation and, between the noise and the fact that his experiment was at a delicate stage, he nearly missed the telltale signs of his brother’s arrival.

Nearly, being the operative word.

“No,” he said, without even bothering to look up.

There was a long pause, before he heard Mycroft clear his throat. “And hello to you, brother dear.”

Sherlock scowled, eyes still on his experiment. Tristram’s shriek of delight merely intensified it.

“No,” he repeated, even though he hated repeating himself. Mycroft’s presence often had the effect of forcing him to do things he detested doing.

“And how is my nephew?” Mycroft said, picking Tristram up amid the latter’s babbles and giggles.

“Fine,” Sherlock responded shortly, still not looking up, though he was rapidly losing his focus on his experiment and, with it, his patience. “Now leave.”

Mycroft ignored him--the smarmy git--and addressed his next question to Tristram. “And what have you got there?” he asked, and Tristram obliged him happily, babbling at speed about the toy.

Sherlock sighed in frustration, walking away from his experiment--which was now _ruined_ \--and moved into the sitting room, pacing agitatedly. “What do you want?” he snapped at Mycroft, heedless of his son’s utterances.

Tristram halted in his speech, sniffling, while Mycroft looked at Sherlock reprovingly. “I thought to offer my services as a babysitter,” he said mildly, patting Tristram lightly on the back. “You appear to need a break.”

Sherlock grit his teeth, barely stopping himself from running his fingers through his hair. The hateful truth of the matter was that his brother was probably right.

He hadn’t had a true break--one that lasted longer than a couple of hours--from Tristram in his son’s entire ten months of existence. At first, curiosity had made him want to keep a close eye on his son, since he was always doing something new and cataloging his behavior and developing personality was interesting and decidedly not boring.

Then protectiveness had reared its head and he hadn’t wanted to be parted from Tristram for any reason.

The last few weeks, though, had been more trying and he was forced to acknowledge that it was sheer stubbornness and his refusal to ask for help that had prevented him from seeking a break from his son.

That didn’t mean he had to admit it out loud, of course, and certainly not to Mycroft.

He scoffed and flopped down on the sofa. “Tristram and I are fine. You’re not needed. Go away.”

Mycroft sighed--setting Sherlock’s teeth even further on edge--and set Tristram down. “Are you?” he asked mildly, and Sherlock looked up at his brother--ready to tell him off--when he saw his brother’s eyes flick significantly to the bookshelf.

Sherlock didn’t move a muscle. “Yes,” he hissed, turning his eyes to the window and the boring people on the street below. He determinedly did not look at the bookshelf.

“Because you seem rather...worked up.”

Sherlock ignored his brother and stared at the people on the street.

“I thought perhaps you might like a case that involved some legwork, a little holiday from London--”

“No,” Sherlock snapped firmly, bored. He glanced back at his brother and glared. “Don’t make me repeat myself yet again.”

“And don’t force me to insist,” Mycroft responded calmly, though Sherlock didn’t miss the threat in his eyes. “It would be rather unfortunate if the Yard were to receive an anonymous tip--”

“You wouldn’t,” Sherlock said flatly, ignoring the voice rationally pointing out that Mycroft absolutely would.

Mycroft simply looked at him. The expression on his face didn’t change, but it didn’t need to.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked out of the window. “No,” he said again, though he was aware that both of them knew he would take the job and allow Mycroft to babysit.

“No.”

Both brothers turned to look towards the bedroom. Standing there, head tilted back to look up at his uncle, was Tristram.

Sherlock leapt up, striding over to his son and kneeling next to him. “What was that?”

Tristram turned to him. “No,” he said, and then giggled.

Sherlock chuckled, shaking his head. “Your first word, and it’s ‘no’?”

“No!”

Sherlock laughed, the tension that he knew had been building for some time releasing itself. It was temporary--he knew that--but it felt good at the moment. He stood, scooping Tristram up in the process and turned to face his brother, smirk in place.

“I think that sums it up.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, though Sherlock thought he detected a hint of smug pleasure in the minute uptick of his lips. They stared at each other for a moment, before Mycroft tickled Tristram gently under his chin. “I’ll see you soon,” he murmured, and then inclined his head before turning and heading towards the stairs.

“The offer stands, Sherlock,” he said before he was gone completely.

Sherlock waited until he heard the door to the street close before releasing a breath. “Shall we go to the park?” he asked Tristram, who giggled.

“No!”

Sherlock smiled ruefully, setting Tristram down. “We’ll have to work on your comprehension of that word. Go get your toy and we’ll go.”

Tristram toddled off to the bedroom and Sherlock took a deep breath, his eyes straying to the bookshelf. As much as he was loath to admit it, he might just need a break before he resorted to...drastic measures.

**

**Solved Case – 11 months, 4 weeks, 1 day**

_Opposite the desk, in the corner furthest from the door, is a bookshelf with a toy double-decker bus on top of it, the bright red colour contrasting with the soothing pastel colour on the walls._

“Kristen Taylor, twenty one years old, on holiday from America,” Lestrade said the moment that Sherlock--Tristram in tow--arrived at All Saints Church where the most recent victim of their serial killer had been discovered.

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, going right over to the body to see if Anderson and his merry band of idiots had managed to obscure important evidence. Yet again. “She was discovered...two hours ago, though she’s been dead for at least two days.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade answered. Unnecessarily, since Sherlock hadn’t asked a question. He let it pass for now, though, as he inspected the body.

It was much as Lestrade had described it--though he’d left out the important details like the dirt and grit on her shoes, the well-thumbed travel guide in her backpack, and the lack of defensive wounds on her hands and arms. He’d also neglected to mention the ligature marks on her neck, as well as the ‘X’ carved into her forehead, the cross carved into her right hand and the pentagram carved into her left.

“Same type as the other two,” Lestrade continued. “Blonde hair, blue eyes, on holiday from another country. Body left in a churchyard, symbols carved into the forehead and palms. We don’t quite know what to make of it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Obviously, or you wouldn’t have called me in,” he said disdainfully.

The woman was, indeed, average height, with blonde hair and blue eyes. That she was a tourist was so easy as to not be worth his time, that she was American was obvious by the absolutely awful shirt she was wearing. Probably a student, too, judging by the notebook in her backpack.

“Da,” Tristram said, hanging behind him. “See?”

“Just a minute, Tristram,” Sherlock responded absent-mindedly, frowning as he considered the soil and grit evidence. _A visit to the V &A, at Harrod’s, wandering around Trafalgar Square and the National Gallery. Dull. Obvious._

“Oooh,” Tristram breathed, but Sherlock ignored it, focused as he was on the case. Nothing seemed to match up.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade said and then hesitated. It would have tested Sherlock’s patience had he actually be paying attention. “I was just wondering, do you need us to bring anything tomorrow?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock mumbled.

Obviously, these women had been chosen specifically, the motive was not completely personal, but the killer had wanted to see them die upclose. The carved markings were a red herring--there was no significance to them and they were there merely to distract--but the locations the bodies dumped were important, he was certain of it--

“Sherlock!”

“What?” Sherlock snapped, glancing up at Lestrade and glaring.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. “I was simply asking if you needed me to bring anything tomorrow.”

“For what?”

“Da, see?”

Lestrade looked confused. “For Tristram’s birthday party.”

Sherlock blinked. “Birthday party?”

“Yeah, your brother called, said tomorrow was the little guy’s first birthday and you were throwing a party...you forgot, didn’t you?”

Sherlock scowled, looking down at Tristram who was clearly interested in the traffic driving along the East India Dock Road. “Of course not,” he answered sharply. “How could I forget a party I had no knowledge of?”

“What?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, huffing in agitation. “I had no intention of giving him a party. He doesn’t need it and he certainly won’t remember it.”

Lestrade spluttered. “Yeah, well...that’s not the point, is it? He’s turning one year old, it’s a big milestone.”

“It’s arbitrary.” He could feel his frustration build. He was here for the case, not to discuss his son’s birthday, and he was furious with his brother. They’d have words once he’d solved this case and Mycroft would regret sticking his overly large nose in.

“Sherlock!”

“Da!”

Sherlock looked down--pointedly ignoring Lestrade--and took a deep breath. “Yes?”

“See?” Tristram said, pointing out towards the road. Sherlock nodded, ruffled his hair, and turned back to Lestrade.

“Now, _fascinating_ as this conversation is, I think you called me here for some other reason?”

Lestrade rolled his eyes and waved at him to continue.

Sherlock turned back to the body. There _had_ to be a connection, beyond the obvious, that would prove to be key. He dismissed the markings, dismissed the dirt on the woman’s shoe, focused on the surrounding ground to see if the killer had left evidence, had finally made a mistake.

Nothing. There was nothing--no shoe prints, no drag marks, no indication of how he transported the body to the churchyard. In fact, no evidence of transportation at all, something that she had in common with the other two victims. Evidence, of course, but he couldn’t tell if it was important or not.

Sherlock ran his fingers through his hair. There had to be _something_ he could work with, but this was the third body in two weeks and between doing his research and legwork and watching over a toddler, he hadn’t slept much and his mind was starting to spin out of a control, in danger of flying off the tracks.

The evidence was there, he _knew_ it was, and he would find.

He came back to the area around the body.

_No drag marks--statistically a man, probably one strong enough to carry the body on his own. No help necessary, and no marks which would indicate a device to assist, such as a wheel track. Probably drove here--_

“Oooh!” he distantly heard, but disregarded it.

Until a moment later, when he heard plodding steps and Lestrade said, “Hold on there, mate, careful.”

“See!” Tristram said as Sherlock looked over, just in time to see his son straining in Lestrade’s grasp, clearly interested in going out to the street.

Lestrade chuckled slightly, eyes trained on Tristram. “Well, that answers my question about what to get you for your birthday.”

Sherlock frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Lestrade simply nodded over to the street. Sherlock, with a roll of his eyes, turned over to look and saw the typical traffic and congestion. Immediately in front of him was a bus, as well as several cabs.

“Ah,” Sherlock said, turning back to the body. “Yes, he’s seemed to have a particular fondness for toys with wheels. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s fascinated by the bus...” he trailed off, staring intently at the body.

Then he blinked, whirled around to look more closely at the bus, and promptly fell to his knees to begin pawing through the victim’s belongings, crowing in triumph when he discovered the telltale piece of evidence he’d been after.

“Have you got something?” Lestrade asked him, sounding wary.

Sherlock smirked to himself, and then straightened up to look at the detective inspector. “Something they’ve all had in common is that none of them have had a travelcard. None of these three tourists took the tube. Why? How were they visiting these sites?”

“Could have walked?”

“But none of them did. This one visited the V&A, shopped at Harrod’s, and walked in Trafalgar Square. The last victim was also in Trafalgar Square, and stopped by St Paul’s. The first victim shopped in Oxford Street and saw the Tower. None of them had travelcards.”

“So...what then? They could have lost them for all we know.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “They didn’t. We know from the evidence that none of them were near their hotels when they disappeared--no soil evidence, and CCTV turned up nothing. Which means they would still have needed to travel. So, if not by tube, that leaves two options: cabs or bus. But cabs are expensive and all three girls were students. Not wealthy ones--hotels attest to that much, as well as the state of their clothing. Bus is the most likely option, but there was never any evidence. Until now.” He held up what he’d discovered deep in the victim’s backpack, pressed between the pages of a journal.

A ticket issued on a routemaster bus.

Lestrade blinked in surprise when Tristram once again squirmed in his grasp, point out at the street where another bus was going by. Sherlock’s lips twitched in a small smirk and he strode forward, plucking his son from the stunned man’s arms and tucking him close. “According to this, she rode the route 15, which coincides with the places the victims were last seen as well as the dump locations. Could be the driver, though it’s probably the conductor, as he would have had more interaction with the passengers. Either way, you’re looking for a tall, sturdily built man, probably in his mid to late 40’s.”

Lestrade cleared his throat. “Right. Donovan,” he called out to the Detective Sergeant, issuing instructions for her to look into the company in charge of operations for that route and see who best matched the profile that Sherlock had given them.

Sherlock tuned it out, smiling down at Tristram who happily watched the traffic progress in the street. “Perhaps we ought to have a party after all, to celebrate,” he said quietly, adjusting his son so that he could rest more comfortably in Sherlock’s arms. “Though, officially, I think it’s silly since you won’t ever remember this anyway.”

“No!” Tristram chimed in. “See!”

“And your uncle and I will have to have words about this, naturally, as I refuse to let him dictate to me what you do with your time.” Sherlock scowled. “He’ll probably attempt to manipulate me into letting him babysit you on a regular basis.”

Tristram laughed and Sherlock decided then that he wouldn’t give in to Mycroft without a fight.

 

**

**19 October 2001**

_The last item of importance sits prominently on the matching night table, which is right next to the bed. It’s a photograph, in a simple frame, of a one-year-old Tristram covered in cake and frosting, clapping his hands. Sherlock himself is lurking in the background, a small smile on his face._

“I want you to be aware,” Sherlock advised Tristram, as he was dressing his son for the day, “that I’m only allowing this party because of the case you were instrumental in solving yesterday. _Not_ because of some arbitrary date on the calendar nor because your uncle is a fat, interfering git who invited all of my colleagues and associates without informing me.”

“No,” Tristram said, and then laughed.

Sherlock nodded. “As long as we’re clear on that point.”

Tristram babbled to himself and Sherlock picked him up and carried him into the sitting room, depositing him on the floor near the toy plane, his current favourite toy. Sherlock suspected that he’d have a new favourite before the day was out.

He spent a bit of time--while Tristram played--to conclude his latest experiment and record the results. He was nearly finished when he heard Mrs Hudson climbing the steps.

“Yoo hoo! Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson called, before reaching the landing and poking her head in. “Oh, there you are, love,” she said. “I have a cake for the party, dear and I wanted to be sure your fridge was clean enough to hold it.”

Sherlock frowned. “Of course it’s clean enough,” he started to say, but Mrs Hudson simply tutted, breezing past him and making her way to the fridge in question.

“Oh, I know you think it is, but you keep those body parts and God knows what else in there and it just isn’t safe. Now, I’m not your housekeeper, but I don’t want anyone to get sick from contamination, so I’ll just give it a good scrub, shall I?”

It was clearly a rhetorical question, as she didn’t bother to listen to his objections. Tristram, the little traitor, seemed to find the whole thing funny as he threw his toy aside and toddled to the doorway to watch, giggling every once in awhile when Mrs Hudson made a comment and Sherlock grimaced in response.

Sherlock was even more annoyed when people started arriving. Lestrade and his wife arrived first with a package wrapped in blue--clearly the toy that the man had threatened to buy just the day before--and Sherlock refrained from pointing out the evidence that Mrs Lestrade was having an affair with their next door neighbour. He told himself it wasn’t to spare Lestrade’s feelings, merely because he didn’t want Mrs Lestrade throwing a wobbly where he’d be forced to witness it.

The Lestrades were quickly followed by Mike Stamford--one of the instructors at Bart’s that Sherlock had cultivated a relationship with in order to have access to the labs there--and Molly, the new assistant medical examiner. And, unfortunately, Sally Donovan deigned to stop by, her present clearly one of those God-awful deerstalker hats, probably some unsubtle reference to the first case he’d brought Tristram on. As a gift, it made no sense, as his son would never remember the incident.

The real lowlight, as far as Sherlock was concerned, was when his brother turned up with his assistant du jour and a large box wrapped up with a large bow on top.

The fact that his brother had deliberately obscured the actual contents to stop Sherlock from deducing them was beyond the pale.

In retaliation, he made sure to mention to the assistant du jour--within his brother’s hearing range--just how sugary, sweet, and calorie-rich Mrs Hudson’s cake was. And then had a second slice, with exaggerated relish for good measure.

The pained, aggrieved look on Mycroft’s face had definitely been worth the extra digestion he’d have to endure.

Tristram--once he got over his initial shyness around so many people and so much attention--positively adored everything about the day. His favourite thing was the cake, which he took great relish in eating. The chocolate cake and white frosting covered his hands and was smeared around his mouth. Sherlock hazarded that he was wearing more of it than he managed to eat.

Molly seemed intent on manning the camera, taking far more pictures than Sherlock felt were warranted, as she seemed to find Tristram “adorable” and “sweet.” Sherlock didn’t see the point of the pictures, but Molly insisted they were for posterity and that Tristram might enjoy seeing them one day.

Sherlock really couldn’t imagine this, but Tristram seemed to giggle every time the flash went off, so he eventually stopped protesting.

Tristram also, much to Sherlock’s chagrin, adored the toy that Lestrade gave him, rolling it back and forth over his tray--as well as through the cake. See?” he would say, holding up the toy after he’d played with it a moment. Molly was the most patient with him, and--by the end of the afternoon--Tristram seemed to have latched onto her, following her around and shyly showing her whatever toy he had in his hand.

It was all so very _tiresome_ , especially when Mycroft yet again offered him a case in some foreign place and Sherlock was forced to resort to threats. They wouldn’t work, especially when Tristram--close to the end of the afternoon--climbed into his uncle’s lap and fell asleep, but Sherlock continued to try.

And then glared when Molly cooed and took another picture.

It was with relief that the afternoon came to an abrupt end when one of the experiments involving Rubidium that Mrs Hudson binned reacted with some water. The resulting noise startled everyone--including Sherlock, though he’d later deny that he’d been surprised at all--and prompted the married ones to call the fire department.

Tristram was upset--until he calmed enough to observe the fire engines--and attempting to explain to the idiots that there was nothing to be concerned about was more than a little frustrating, but it did have the benefit of convincing all of the guests that it was time to leave.

Once everything was straightened out--the guests gone, the fire department departed--Sherlock carried a very exhausted one year old up the steps to 221B Baker Street and prepared him for bed, working around the toy bus that Tristram kept in his hand.

“I hope you enjoyed that,” Sherlock said as he laid Tristram down in bed.

A small murmur was all he got in response, but he smiled briefly and ruffled his son’s dark curls.

**

**31 August 2009**

“Father?”

Sherlock blinked, refocusing on the present and his son, who had awoken and was glancing at him sleepily from his bed. He cleared his throat. “Yes?”

“You solved the case.”

Sherlock mentally applauded him for stating it as fact, rather than asking it. “Yes.”

Tristram hesitated and then sat up in bed, looking at him seriously and not without a hint of uncertainty. “Father...” he trailed off, fidgeting slightly.

“Yes?”

Tristram looked up at him and Sherlock could well imagine what he wanted to say. That he was concerned about the following day--his first at yet another new school--that he was afraid he wouldn’t fit in or that his peers would hate him.

He could well imagine how the entire conversation would play out and it wasn’t one he particularly relished having. He suspected that Tristram didn’t want to have it either.

Of course, Sherlock thought Tristram’s fears were ridiculous, as he’d told his son when they’d had this discussion previously. Why Tristram couldn’t understand how utterly wretched _fitting in_ and _being normal_ was, baffled Sherlock.

“Nothing,” Tristram mumbled, looking down at his hands.

Sherlock nodded and leant over to ruffle Tristram’s hair. “Get some sleep. You know you don’t function well without it.”

Tristram nodded, still looking paler than usual, and slid back into bed. “Night, Father,” he said, his voice quiet and subdued.

Sherlock stood and walked to the door, already cataloging the moment in his mind, preparing it for a more permanent place in his mind palace. “Good night.”


End file.
